


Breath Through the Water

by luna_plath



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Kink Meme, M/M, Sexual Tension, Suicide Attempt, The Night's Watch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 20:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_plath/pseuds/luna_plath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon accepts Theon as a brother in the Night’s Watch.  The prompt was, “the aftermath of Theon’s attempted suicide.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breath Through the Water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IrisParry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisParry/gifts).



> In one of the Dunk and Egg stories there’s a maester who knows the Westeros version of CPR. I have no idea if this is common knowledge at the Citadel, but I’m just going to go with it.

“What do you plan to do with him?” the king asked, his hands clasped behind his back. The biting wind off the top of the Wall hardly seemed to faze Stannis, as harsh and cut from ice as the landscape around them.

“Accept him.”

Jon could tell it was not what Stannis Baratheon wanted to hear, but he’d decided on the matter the previous evening. Theon Greyjoy had arrived at Castle Black in ragged form, brutalized by Roose Bolton’s bastard son while on the way to the Wall, and Jon had assumed that the king would call for Theon’s execution himself. 

He’d been surprised when Stannis had left the decision up to him, establishing a morbid form of justice in Jon’s involvement. A year ago the decision would have been easy, perhaps even a few months ago Jon would have reached a different outcome, but much and more had changed since he’d been made Lord Commander, including his identity as a man of the Night’s Watch and as the son of Eddard Stark.

Stannis ground his teeth in the interim, but criticism did not follow. “Very well. Though I’d suggest keeping him guarded for the time being.”

“As protection from whom, your grace?” Jon asked, blinking against the light flakes of snow that had begun to fall.

“Himself. Greyjoy was humiliated in battle, only to be spared the dignity of a mortal wound or an execution. It wouldn’t be unheard of for him to make an attempt on his own life.”

From their vantage point seven hundred feet above the ground he thought on how easy it would be to merely step off the edge of the Wall. The fall would be undoubtedly lethal, a simple way to erase the taint of failure, to escape punishment or further humiliation. For someone in Theon’s position, it wasn’t an unthinkable option.

\----

Following his conversation with Stannis, Jon had guards placed around Theon’s cell. Sam and Maester Aemon frequently called on Theon to heal the wounds inflicted by Lord Bolton’s son Ramsey, and Sam had come to Jon more than once after his visits with the Maester, overwrought concerning the state of their newest brother.

“Ramsey Snow flayed his fingers before cutting them off,” Sam said, queasy just from the thought. He seemed to sink a little deeper into the chair in Jon’s solar, as if he were hoping to be swallowed up by the furniture. Sam’s features showed both disgust and bewilderment, but Jon had already heard the full details from Maester Aemon after his initial inspection. 

“In the past, the Boltons were known for flaying their enemies. Greyjoy is lucky to be mostly intact.”

His reply didn’t seem to alleviate any of Sam’s concern, but he had more to worry about than some missing fingers. While he was filled in on the rest of Theon’s physical progress Jon thought back to what Stannis had said about men in Theon’s circumstance. Unlike the king, he’d grown up with Theon Greyjoy, and Jon had learned things about his father’s ward in their early years together that he supposed were still true. Where Robb had been brave even when faced with the prospect of punishment, often to the point of stubbornness, Theon had never displayed the same quality. Jon remembered him as arrogant, especially once he reached manhood, but arrogance and courage were not the same thing.

Jon was still engrossed in his thoughts when Sam left, recalling Theon’s stories about the ironborn and their fearlessness. Lord Eddard had often admitted that Balon Greyjoy was brave to rebel against the Iron Throne, sometimes adding the caveat that it took more than bravery to win a war, but Jon had never been convinced of that quality in Balon’s son. Like deserting, Jon thought that killing yourself took a certain kind of bravery. 

_Even when he stormed Winterfell it was in secret, in the dead of night when there would be few men to oppose him_ , Jon thought, certain that Theon Greyjoy lacked the fortitude to end his own life.

\----

The next evening Dolorous Edd found Jon in his quarters, bearing news that he found oddly unsurprising.

“Lord Commander, some of the king’s men have beaten up Greyjoy,” Edd solemnly informed him. “They seemed to think he deserved to die. King Stannis has broken them up, but I’m sure it won’t be the end of it. One beating is never enough for men like that, and the Watch is full of the sort who should have been bloodied for something along the line. But what else can you expect from knights and lordly men? One day they’re saving you from wildlings, the next day they’re killing you while you sleep.”

Jon had already begun to dress, throwing on his cloak and gloves and shouldering Longclaw. “Where is Theon?”

“He was being carried to the Maester, last I saw. Though perhaps the brothers have just gone to finish him off. Best to put him out of his misery, if you ask me, but that’ll be your lordship’s decision,” Edd gloomily conceded.

“I need to speak with Stannis,” Jon said, feeling a sharp gale of wind as he opened the door. Edd and Ghost fell a few paces behind him, but he didn’t stop to shorten his strides. Once Jon neared the yard outside the main hall it was obvious that there had been some sort of fight, with some men nervously staying out of the way while others were still being restrained at Stannis’s command.

“Lord Commander,” the king said, a steely tone creeping into his voice. “A few of my men have proven insubordinate. It’s a sad day when knights under the true king are less capable of following orders than the dregs of the seven kingdoms.”

Stannis’s words quelled any resistance among the men, quickly silencing the lot of them. Jon instructed the few brothers that were present to remain where they were; he wanted to speak with each of them individually.

The story he heard from the different men in the Watch was much the same, confirming what he’d learned from Edd and Stannis. After nearly an hour of standing outside questioning his men, he figured that Maester Aemon would be finished patching Theon up by now, assuming he hadn’t been too severely injured. The idea of a scared and brutalized Theon Greyjoy held a queer weight in Jon’s mind. He got no satisfaction from the man’s humiliation; it was just another violent event in the wake of Theon’s crimes, a far cry from any kind of justice or retribution.

Two guards flanked the entrance to Maester Aemon’s quarters despite his hope that they wouldn’t be immediately necessary. Nodding to them, Jon entered the tower rooms. A fire had been lit in what usually served as the Maester’s solar and Jon could see cloth bandages, a wash basin, and various bottled remedies readily on hand, forming a temporary sickroom for the new recruit.

The old, blind Maester spread slave over a cut on Theon’s arm, blotting the gash before wrapping it in a bandage. Sam looked away from Aemon’s work, cutting lengths of bandages to be applied to other places on Theon’s body, then crushing herbs for more salve with a mortar and pestle. Jon took a seat and waited for them to finish. Maester Aemon must have given Greyjoy some dreamwine before his arrival, Jon thought, because Theon remained asleep even as his body was shifted and prodded during the bandaging.

After a few minutes of silence Sam broached a question, his voice quiet compared to the loudly crackling fire.

“Why did you accept him?” Sam asked. “Stannis would have taken him prisoner, or executed him, if you’d wished.”

“Either of things would be the wrong decision,” Jon said, watching the rise and fall of Theon’s chest. He couldn’t tell if it was shallow or steady, if Theon would recover or deteriorate further. “They say he killed my brothers, but the bodies he presented were unrecognizable, and without any sign of their wolves who’s to say if they were really Bran and Rickon? Theon is the only one who truly knows.”

Sam’s expression changed minutely, the corners of his mouth sloping into a frown, and Jon knew what his friend was thinking. “If I kill him or hand him over to Stannis then I loose the chance of ever knowing the truth. Theon will stay. He will take his vows, he will serve the Watch, and eventually, in a week or a month or a year, he will talk.”

\----

After a few weeks, Theon began to recover from the cumulative battering he’d endured, even managing to take his meals with the rest of the men in the dining hall. So far there hadn’t been any further incidents with the men in Stannis’s service and Jon was grateful that nothing similar had occurred among the brothers. In truth, he’d avoided being around Theon since he’d arrived at Castle Black, but Jon dismissed this fact whenever his mind turned to it. With so many obligations as the Lord Commander he had very little time to spend with the new recruits, making his treatment of Theon nothing unusual.

Theon’s crimes were well known within the Watch, but compared to some of the men who had taken the black they hardly stood out. For every man like Sam or Pyp or Satin there were just as many who were far worse; Jon did not expect them to raise any complaints about Theon Turncloak, as some called him, even if Jon himself had to restrain his anger at times. Seeing Theon’s face every day did nothing to lessen the hard, frozen pit of anger Jon felt toward him—if anything, the constant exposure to the man who had a role in the destruction of his father’s house and the possible murder of his brothers only solidified his feelings. The constant reminder of Theon’s existence was like a cold first in Jon’s stomach, clenching tighter and tighter with every passing day.

The brothers may have taken little notice of the Greyjoy recruit, but Jon was unwilling to risk the stability he’d developed. Theon was still guarded when he went from one place at Castle Black to another, a precaution that would be reversed in time, once Jon deemed it acceptable.

However, it was only typical that Theon’s existence would continue to cause problems. One evening, while most of Castle Black was sitting down to dinner and Melisandre was holding one of her night fires, Jon was nearly plowed over by Jon Barleycorn, one of the guards he’d assigned to watch Theon.

“Lord Commander! Greyjoy slipped away—Derrick slipped on some ice and knocked himself out. I don’t know where he’s gone to. He’s too weak to get anywhere on foot, and even on horseback I doubt he’d get very far—“

Stannis’s warning came back to Jon, buzzing at him like an insistent fly. “Look for him at the top of the Wall,” he instructed. “He may try to jump off. Whatever you do, don’t let him.”

If Barleycorn thought his instructions strange, he showed no sign of it, turning in the direction of the newly repaired staircase. Instead of following him Jon made for a different location within Castle Black. Stannis had thought Theon would try to end his life by jumping from the Wall, but Jon knew better. The Wall was seven hundred feet in height, dizzying to look down from, a death for someone brave in their misery.

Theon had never been brave.

The baths were mostly empty from what Jon could see, but with only two torches lit it was difficult for him to tell. Steam rose over the large, sunken basins, adding a thickness to the dark air. He squinted through the poorly lit chamber and hurried over the wet slate floor, following the faint column of steam that hung over a single tub. Through the clouded water Jon could see Theon. A flash of dark hair and pale skin, with something large and gray centered on his chest.

_A stone._ The water in the tubs was heated by large, smooth stones that had been warmed over a brazier. Theon had dragged one of the largest ones into the tub with him, using it to pin himself to the bottom of the tub. Jon tore off his cloak, sword, and boots, jumping into the water.

The stone Theon had picked was more like a boulder. Bubbles streamed from Jon’s nose as he hefted it off Theon’s body, panicking at the blue tinge to his skin. _It’s just the water that makes him look that way_ , Jon thought, snaring the other man around the waist and heaving him over the rim of the tub. Once he crawled onto the slick, hard floor Jon realized just how cold the water had been, his teeth chattering as he rolled Theon onto his back.

Jon slapped Theon’s pale, lifeless face, but it made no difference. Shaking Theon’s shoulders, he remembered Maester Luwin explaining how the ironborn brought drowned men back to life. At Winterfell, Theon had even offered to throw him and Robb into the moat to give them a demonstration.

Pressing his hands onto Theon’s chest in the same place the stone had rested, Jon heaved his weight onto Theon’s breastbone. _Ironborn don’t fear drowning_ , Theon had told him, always haughty when Jon or Robb would visit the heart tree. Jon cursed Theon Greyjoy and his damned Drowned God, curving his mouth over Theon’s and breathing air into his chest. The contact made Jon shiver. It was so like the many kisses he’d shared with Ygritte, but Theon’s mouth was cold and lifeless, his lips gone bluish and pale. Jon shoved on Theon’s chest again, fearing he would crush him with the pressure, only to be rewarded when a gurgle of water sloshed out of Theon’s mouth.

Color slowly returned to Theon’s face as he coughed and sputtered; he promptly rolled on his side and vomited, emptying his stomach of bathwater. Jon sat next to the edge of the tub, his blacks completely waterlogged, more exhausted than he’d realized. He got up and threw Theon’s clothes at him while he tugged on his own boots and cloak.

“Jon Snow,” Theon wheezed, gingerly pulling his tunic over his head. “Why didn’t you just leave me to die?”

“You gave up that choice when you said the oath,” Jon said, iciness filling his words. _And I’m not done with you yet_ , he thought.

\----

Jon added more wood to the fire, watching the flames lick their way over the logs, feeling the soothing rush of heat on his body. Theon was sitting on the pelt in front of the hearth with a blanket wrapped around himself, his legs drawn up to his chest. They had both changed out of their wet blacks but Jon could still feel some frost in his hair. The fire melted the ice that clung to his beard, the cool water moving over his skin in slow trickles.

He took his seat by the fire, his hand dropping to Ghost’s head at the side of the chair. Theon’s face was drawn and serious, so different from the usual, lazy smile Jon remembered him wearing. The firelight showed the damage that had been inflicted on him before and since arriving at Castle Black—purplish circles from his healing black eyes, a fresh scar near the corner of his mouth from a split lip, the dark bloom that trailed up his neck from a still-broken collar bone. And then there were the missing fingers. Those had been Ramsey Bolton’s price, both taken from Theon’s left hand, the hand he’d always used to hold his bow. Jon wondered if he was still an archer, or if that was lost to him as well.

The silence furled around them until the crackling of the flames was practically deafening. Ghost rested with his head on his paws, motionless but not fully asleep.

“I didn’t kill them,” Theon said, his voice raspy from all the water he’d inhaled. “I don’t know if they’re alive. They escaped from the castle and we searched and searched but never found them, not even their wolves. I hung two of the miller’s boys instead, tarred their bodies and passed them off as Bran and Rickon.”

Jon said nothing. The fire was so warm he felt like he was suffocating, the memory of Bran’s wolf in the thunderstorm turning something in his gut. Theon leaned his head on Jon’s knee and brought his hand to Jon’s thigh, the weight of it reminding him of Ygritte’s hands on his chest and arms and stomach. It had been so long since he’d touched another person and Theon’s hair was tickling the inside of Jon’s wrist and his breath warm against Jon’s leg. It caused a sort of light-headedness that he associated with fighting or Ygritte’s mouth on his own, making Jon sharply aware of the position they were in.

He reached his scarred hand to Theon’s cheek, his fingers lightly brushing the unmarred skin there, his thumb trailing the swell of Theon’s lower lip. And then he leaned down and brought their mouths together. It was so quick and simple but the feel of Theon’s lips against his was heady and intense, vulnerable like the thrust of a sword. Jon felt himself falling forward, Theon’s hands gripping the front of his blacks, both of them landing in a heap on the pelt in front of the fire.

_So he can use his hands_ , Jon thought, pressing his tongue between Theon’s lips and feeling Theon tug on his hair. A fluid, molten awareness was creeping through Jon’s body, starting in his lower stomach and curling through his groin, his spine, loosening something that had been tightly clenched inside him. Theon slid his hand under Jon’s tunic and mapped his chest, tracing the thin line of hair that led beneath his breeches, circling his nipple while he bit Theon’s lower lip.

Pulling away, Jon shed his doublet and tunic, helping Theon do the same and then reaching for the laces of the other man’s breeches. A spiderweb of bruises and cuts covered Theon’s chest. Jon was hard and a light touch from the back of Theon’s hand made him suck in a breath; he reached between Theon’s legs and rubbed the heel of his hand over Theon’s arousal. He lowered his hips to Theon’s and canted his lower body forward, seeking some kind of friction, wanting to bury himself beneath the other man’s skin.

Jon leaned off him for a moment, pushing his breeches further past his hips and taking out his cock, then reaching for Theon and doing the same. He snared his hips with Theon’s and the shock of sensation that followed made Jon bite his lip and sigh deeply. Theon brought his intact hand around both of them, seeking Jon’s mouth while he pressed their cocks together. Jon restrained himself from putting too much weight on Theon’s scarred body, rocking against Theon’s hand instead. Kissing his cheek and his neck and the spot behind his ear, Jon breathed into Theon’s hair as his orgasm slowly stole over him in the rough strokes of Theon’s hand. 

Theon came first, making a wining noise in the back of his throat and completely undoing Jon in the process. He slumped on his side and let Theon curl his body toward his, the two forgotten boys of Winterfell. Jon shut his eyes and breathed, letting the coldness inside of him dissipate just a little. His body felt warm and relaxed, like his bones had turned to liquid; Theon closed his eyes and pressed his face to Jon’s neck, his breathing easy and unguarded.

**fin.**


End file.
